


The Constant

by Saziikins



Series: Evolutions [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Episode: s04e01 The Six Thatchers, M/M, Male Friendship, Pre-Slash, Season/Series 04 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 06:33:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9166393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saziikins/pseuds/Saziikins
Summary: Lestrade gets a few things off his chest. Sherlock admits to things he perhaps doesn't want to.





	

**Author's Note:**

> MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THE SIX THATCHERS.
> 
> Do not read if you do not want to be spoiled.
> 
> SPOILERS LIE AHEAD. READ BEYOND THIS POINT AT YOUR PERIL.
> 
> I'm taking The Six Thatchers at face value in this fic. As in, everything that appeared to happen is what happened. Add that to my negative perception of John (which I've tried to hard to work on - he's even been nice in recent fics I've written!) then this story is more anti-John than anything I've written so far. 
> 
> I don't think this is an amazing piece of writing by any stretch. I think this is more about me getting my views off my chest in a constructive way. But perhaps this will offer you the same kind of relief this has given me. 
> 
> I think there's more to be said in this story. But I'm not sure what that is yet, so watch this space, but not too closely, in case I've run out of inspiration!
> 
> And yes, I stole the title from Lost. So sue me. (Please don't really).

“He’s gone for good, isn’t he?” 

A hollowness had eaten at him for months now. An emptiness was buried inside him, a hole he would never fill. He’d lost three that night; he lost Mary, strong, resourceful, intelligent Mary who blazed into his life and brought him so much joy. He lost John, John who had changed him, John who had made him better, brought out a humanity he had locked away and he had not wanted to believe existed. And Rosie, sweet Rosie, who had so much of Mary in her already, who Sherlock longed to see more than anyone else in the world. He wanted to look at her, and see Mary’s eyes, see Mary’s spirited personality pouring out of her as she grew. 

Three of them had been taken from him that night. 

“I tried,” Lestrade said. “But he… he said the same thing. I don’t even think he’ll let _me_ see her anymore. I couldn’t even take pictures of her the last two times.”

Sherlock crossed his legs. “He’s not… he’s not John anymore.” Lestrade winced and shrugged one shoulder. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, assessing him. “You don’t agree?”

“You don’t want to hear what I think, Sherlock.”

“No?”

“No, you’re not going to like what I have to say about him.”

“Perhaps I’m ready to feel angry. Perhaps I’m ready to… hear something other than how wonderful he is.”

Lestrade sighed, and glanced towards the door. “Look, Mrs Hudson… she doesn’t really know that he’s pushed you out like this. I mean, she knows you’ve not seen Rosie, but…”

“But John’s made it seem as though that’s my choice.”

“He tells her you’re too busy to go round.”

Then that would explain why Mrs Hudson was so angry at him. 

Sherlock let out a long breath, staring up at the ceiling, trying to stop being affected by John’s actions. John had cut him out. That was a fact, plain and simple, something Sherlock would have to live with. Not seeing Rosie… that was what was killing him. Not even pictures anymore. If Lestrade was no longer allowed to visit, let alone take pictures and videos of her, then that was it. He’d never see her again, in any sense.

Maybe Mrs Hudson would show him some pictures, when she managed to get her camera working properly. Maybe Molly would come round, one day, perhaps. Perhaps John’s anger would ease, and he’d allow Lestrade to go over again, but Sherlock wasn’t holding his breath. 

Lestrade had set his stall out from the beginning. He wouldn’t be drawn into John’s divisive posturing. He’d go round and look after Rosie if needed, but he’d see Sherlock and tell him everything afterwards. Sherlock was sure John knew that, even if Lestrade never said it explicitly. 

“He’s such a child,” Lestrade suddenly snapped. He breathed in hard, then marched into the kitchen to make tea, because Lestrade hated to hate. He was a compassionate, understanding man. A closed book, really, in many ways, but he was loyal and dedicated to his friends. Choosing sides did not come naturally to him, but he chose Sherlock because… because… Who knew? It didn’t really matter why. Sherlock had become endlessly grateful for his efforts. 

There was no one else. Except Mycroft. Bloody Mycroft. 

So, three cheers to Lestrade. The most loyal man on earth, perhaps. 

“You can say what you want to say about John,” Sherlock told him, as he brought the mugs over. “I’m not going to try to defend him anymore.”

Lestrade sunk onto the couch opposite. “Anything I say… It doesn’t come from a good place. I don’t like thinking it, even. It might make us feel better for a while, but it’ll curdle like milk inside me after, and I’ll be annoyed I said it.”

“You’re a good man.”

Lestrade squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. “I’m so angry, Sherlock. Every time I see you, I want you to tell me John’s got his head out of his arse, and every day he hasn’t, I get angrier. You deserve so much better than this.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“We’ll end up arguing in a minute. Don’t fight me on this, don’t fight me on what kind of man Sherlock Holmes has become. You’re a great man, a good man, the kind of man I want in my life.”

“And John?”

Lestrade hesitated, and sipped his tea. “John’s not the man I thought he was,” he finally said. “He’s got Mrs H and Molly eating out of his hand. I know he’s grieving. But, you know, I’ve seen him texting some woman. For a grieving husband, he’s moving on pretty bloody fast.”

“He’s texting a woman?”

“Yeah, I saw her name come up on his phone. Emily, I think. He gets this sort of smile… doesn’t take your powers of deduction to work out what’s going on there.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Lestrade shrugged. “And he won’t let you see his daughter, even though you loved Mary like he did. Maybe even more, judging by his recent behaviour.” Greg ran a hand over his face. “I swore I wouldn’t do this. I wanted to be neutral, Sherlock. As neutral as I could be, anyway, while still being here for you.”

“It’s just you and me, Lestrade. We’re all we’ve got now.”

Lestrade shot him a sad smile. “I’m sure there are some worse places to be than stuck with me.”

“Stop putting yourself down. We’ll make a new rule. Neither of us will put ourselves down anymore. We did what we could and… and that wasn’t enough for everyone.”

“Fuck John Watson then?”

Sherlock swallowed. He couldn’t dismiss him that easily, despite everything. “I loved Mary. John had been my best friend, but maybe it was her, by the end. She was my equal.”

“I know.”

“He’s stolen the only piece of her left in the world from me. I know he blames me. I understand that, but Mary would want me to see Rosie, I know she would, and this is…”

Lestrade rested a hand on his knee. “It’s not John you miss, is it?”

“I… I think I saw through him by the end. He didn’t treat her right, he didn’t… love her. I saw him texting someone else. I never said anything, perhaps I should have done. But I tried to ignore it. I tried to remember how I thought about him when I met him, that he was moral and good, I tried to pretend he was still those things. Maybe I changed him for the worse.”

“Or maybe this John was always there?” Lestrade suggested. “He hit you, Sherlock. Cut your lip, bruised your cheek. I let it go, because… because he was your friend, and I didn’t want to get in the way of any of that.”

“But?”

“This anger I feel right now? I felt the same then when I realised what happened. I wish I’d said something. Perhaps I’d have got it out of my system, even if I’d only taken him aside, but I kept my mouth shut because it felt like the right thing to do.”

“You don’t like him.”

“I tried to like him. I always tried. We got on easy enough, a few jokes, chat about the rugby or the football.” Lestrade frowned. “He never… asked about me. He never really wanted to know about me or my life. I didn’t want to tell him much, anyway, but it’s nice to be asked, right?”

“I… I never…”

“Yeah, you do, in your own Sherlock way. I can’t explain how it’s different. But it just is. It’s not because I’ve known you longer, that I’m here. It’s because… because your actions are always, always to help someone else. To save someone’s life, or to give someone the truth. And him? The way he treated Mary? The way he’s treated you down the years, and is treating you now? His actions speak as loud as yours do. And they tell me he’s not the man we thought he was.”

“I miss Rosie.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m going to as well.”

Sherlock sat back in his chair, and tried to will the ache in his chest to leave him. It didn’t. It probably wouldn’t. She was a missing piece in his life now. Still, he wasn’t alone, not fully. He looked at Lestrade’s hand, still comforting on his knee. “You have a daughter…”

“Yeah. She’s five now. I could bring her round here some time? She’s not going to be as smart as Rosie, she doesn’t have Mary’s genes, but she can hold her own in a game of Buckaroo.”

Sherlock managed a smile. “I’ll cook us some eggs,” he said, as he got to his feet. “Least I can do, for all you’ve done recently.”

“Is that safe?" Lestrade asked. "I mean… I’m sure you can cook, I just don’t know what sorts of acids live in your kitchen these days…”

“Only vinegar, Lestrade. You’re quite safe. And you should bring her round. I’d like that.”

“Me too.”

Sherlock put the pan on the hob, and gripped the counter. She’d never be far from his thoughts. Neither of them, Rosie and Mary both. He’d always remember them, always miss them. And if John invited him back into his life, then Sherlock would be there in an instant, no questions asked. 

But if he never did… then Sherlock would always love and miss those girls. And he'd never forget. 

“Have you got any pictures of your daughter?” he asked. Lestrade was at his side moments later, scrolling through them on his phone, pictures of her when she was just a baby, wearing fancy dress costumes, wearing a deerstalker hat… They talked about her all night, after they ate their eggs and drank more tea. 

He took a moment to look at Lestrade later, when he’d passed out on the couch and Sherlock covered him with a blanket. 

Lestrade was always right there, he thought. Steadying, comforting, reliable. And for just a moment, for the brief moment when Lestrade was the only thing on his mind, the emptiness he’d been feeling mostly went away.


End file.
